


Cherish

by Tammany



Series: The Secret Marriage [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Tender BDSM, Tender Dom/sub, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 04:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This one...Ok. This one I like. The others are exploration, and I am not unhappy with them. But this one I like. The boys explore one more aspect of their kink week, fulfilling Mycroft's notion. There's some clothing porn. Tender Dom/sub. Tender oral sex.Still kink. Still BDSM. Still Dom/sub. No evading it. Just--very gentle. Hopefully also very hot, but that varies from reader to reader. Here it is, my dears. I hope you like it.





	Cherish

[Fragile: Sting](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnZgNYoZkeU)

“Explain the rules,” Greg said, seating himself on the sofa in the sitting room. He was dressed in handsome hanfu robes; a shenyi with ku trousers, in deep wine and black. The outfit allowed him the range to put one foot up on the sofa, with his robes still covering his ku.

He looked, to Mycroft, magnificent. Regal. Powerful.

“There are no real rules,” he told his husband, keeping his eyes down and his hands crossed. He had changed from silks to a nearly transparent layered pao and chun: a long robe and skirt. Where Greg’s robes were made of strong, sturdy silk, heavy enough to swing as gracefully as Sherlock’s Belstaff coat, Mycroft’s were sheer. Even with multiple layers very little of his body was hidden. The fabric was printed with delicate peonies in the softest pink. “I kneel between your legs and take your cock in my mouth. If at some time you become aroused, you can fuck my mouth—but I’m just there as a passive receptacle. I’m your cock warmer.”

Greg blinks. Thinks. “If I want you to do more?”

“Then you’re changing the game. I mean—I suppose you could suggest I raise my tongue somewhat for a bit more friction. But I’m nothing. Not even a concubine. Not a ‘cocksucker.’ I’m your cock warmer. That’s all. I keep your cock warm.”

Greg pondered the game. He nodded. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. So—I what? Watch telly? Read? Play games on my smart phone?”

“Certainly. Work on cases. Do your nails. Whatever you like. I—”

“Kneel and keep my cock warm. Got it.” He settled himself more comfortably in the sofa, gathering a variety of remotes, tablets, books, phones, and other items around him, in easy reach. He nodded. “Ready.”

Mycroft gathered the skirts of his robes and knelt, creeping carefully up to lean against the sofa. He reached up and raised the skirts of the shenyi, revealing the ku. He found the ties of the fly, opened them, and withdrew Greg’s cock. He settled himself, opened his mouth, and took his husband in. He leaned against Greg’s inner thigh, relaxed and motionless, hands folded in his lap over the skirts that failed to hide his own caged cock.

Greg felt a tingle, as he looked down at his husband. He was completely passive, almost to the point of catatonia. The inside of his mouth was warm and wet and tender. His tongue tucked up firm against the underside of his husband’s prick. His breath was warm, slipping past the slight opening still left by the untied fly of the ku trousers.

This, Greg thought, was different. Not bad. He couldn’t image it being bad. There was a warm, cozy mouth wrapped around his penis. But…

It wasn’t what he usually thought of when he thought of Mycroft on his knees, mouth around Greg’s cock.

Not that he minded, if his boy found this satisfying. It was a way to delight his husband that required essentially nothing from him other than the willingness to occupy himself sitting down with nothing much to do but read or watch a movie, or whatever. He reached for his tablet and pulled up the latest mystery from his favorite author, sliding easily into her dry, clean prose and her sense of humor.

Below, Mycroft held his husband’s cock as though it were more precious than gold, more fragile than a newborn chick. It was warm, and even at rest it was thick. He loved the smell of Greg’s crotch—the smell of skin and soap and the slightest touch of sweat. Musky notes carried in his pubic hair. The skin of his cock was both smooth and velvety, like a peach.

The temptation rose in him to explore—to trace that beautiful, soft rod with his tongue. To suckle it, tenderly. To tickle the frenulum. To play with it.

He refrained. He wasn’t a cocksucker, he was a cock warmer. His job was to keep his husband’s cock warm and wet and happy without resorting to sex. If Greg roused and wanted to fuck his mouth, Greg could: it was his right. He owned Mycroft’s mouth. But even then Mycroft was just—a thing. A convenience. The caretaker of his lover’s organ.

The temptation was intense, though. He forced himself to remain still. He felt his face, pillowed on the silk ku covering his lover’s inner thigh. He must be like a man sleeping: quiet. In repose.

His lips seemed to swell with his longing and become sensitive. He could feel the thickness they encircled. The solid core beneath the supple skin. The weight on Mycroft’s tongue was like solid, perfect beef, or a perfect pork sausage; something delicious.

He felt the most intense tenderness toward Greg’s cock—it washed over him. It was at the heart of so many cherished memories. Mycroft remembered their first hesitant kisses, Greg’s erection pressing against Mycroft’s thigh, against his belly. He remembered their first making out, the thrill of first touching this skin, feeling this flesh swell at his caress. He remembered the first time they’d had sex, cock pressing cock between their folded hands. The first time Greg had penetrated him, pressing in only after long and careful preparation—almost too gentle, too determined to be tender and kind. He remembered showers taken together, and baths. The feel of this cock in cold water in a mountain lake, the soft currents bobbing it gently, begging for him to touch and explore. The velvety smoothness under his fingers in bed on a weekend morning...

Greg, reading, stirred. He shifted, and his cock moved softly in Mycroft’s mouth. His thigh changed angle, moving the level of support. Mycroft shifted in turn, securing his position holding his lover’s organ warm and safe.

This was his purpose, he thought. More than just to protect and keep this bit of Greg safe, but to keep it warm and comfortable and make it feel cherished: to make Greg feel cherished.

He could feel Greg’s cock begin to swell. He fought not to react. He was passive. Insubstantial as smoke—just a warm, wet hole to hold Greg’s penis.

Greg’s penis was happy with that—but wanted to be happier. It thickened and stirred, pressing upward against Mike’s palate, and nudged against the back of his throat.

He didn’t gag. He didn’t begin mouthing his treasure. He remained still.

Greg, above, set his tablet aside and cupped the top of his lover's skull with a wide palm, holding Mycroft’s head steady. He began a slow, comfortable fuck into the soft mouth surrounding his cock. He’d thought this would be dull—Mike passive, nothing more than a wet wrap covering him. Instead it was oddly sexy: the mouth around him loose and soft. He angled himself so his cock-head stroked Mycroft’s tongue, stropping against it, pressing down into passive, still flesh, rubbing on the tender nap of Mike's taste buds, sliding over the supple skin, brushing against the lining of his cheeks.

Taking his mouth, as his mouth remained still and relaxed.

It was like the times he’d jacked himself off in the bath with a warm, soapy bath flannel, only this time the bath flannel was Mycroft, staying still, being such a good boy. Such a good cock warmer. Still and peaceful and accepting in placid humility the cock humping into him. He was able to take his time, this way, stroking lazily into Mycroft’s mouth, taking what he wanted, with no need to give anything: the gift was letting his boy do this in the first place.

Mycroft’s lips were slick, now, from his own saliva. They were swollen with his own longing, his own awareness of his husband using him. His cock, in its cage, stirred and twitched, longing to be allowed to come. But this was an exercise in denial of all sorts. He was air, he was water, he was the smoke of a campfire, he was effortless comfort and meek compliance. Nothing more.

Greg thrust in, over and over, lazy with it. At last he climaxed, spilling down Mycroft’s throat, filling his mouth, the scent taking over his sinuses.

Mycroft swallowed it down but remained still otherwise.

Greg, smiling, patted his head like a big dog, and went back to his book. His cock, contented, lay heavy and limp on Mycroft’s tongue, warm in Mycroft’s mouth. It could afford to be limp; Mycroft was there to hold it lightly, tenderly in place, to keep it warm and happy. It wouldn’t be like fucking a woman, and sliding out after climax. Or like fucking someone up the arse, when muscular pressure alone would eventually force it out into the cold. It could stay in the warm forever, trusting Mycroft to hold it and cherish it, warm and wet and rewarding.

Greg owned his boy; his cock owned his boy’s mouth.

Mycroft leaned against Greg’s inner thigh. He remained still. He felt the cock that occupied him; the cock that owned him. He loved it. He served it. It was the living, powerful symbol of his love for Greg, and Greg’s for him. He worshiped. He adored. He cherished it with all his heart.

Minutes ticked by. Greg, above, read. He stroked his cock-warmer’s head. His cock roused—and wilted, the desire mild and quick to pass. He moved, and his cock shifted in Mycroft’s warm, slack mouth, forcing Mycroft to shift too.

In the quiet of the flat, they were together, Mycroft existing for no purpose but to cherish his man’s pecker. To worship it. to serve it.

The act triggered so many feelings. A trace of shame. A greater shiver at his own meek pliancy—so alien to his daily demeanor, as he ruled his department and imposed his will. Here, now, he ruled nothing but his own choice, and his choice was only to stay still and give this glorious cock his most humble submission. He felt pride: he was performing well. He was a good cock warmer. He felt tenderness and gratitude: his husband was allowing him this experiment, and it was all he had hoped.

He felt an aching, desperate love—for Greg. For Greg’s beautiful penis. For himself, loving them both, being so disciplined, enjoying it so much. He shuddered with the sense of longing he knew he’d feel when this passed. Sometime he’d have to let Greg’s cock go. He’d have to move out of his position between Greg’s thighs. He’d have to become Mycroft, and make active choices, and prove himself in more burdensome ways. He’d lose this easy, effortless, floating feeling, and be ripped back into a colder and more demanding world.

His current happiness overwhelmed him. The tears trickled down, washing his face. He didn’t move, though. He made no sound. He held his love’s cock in his loving mouth, like a womb holding a cherished fetus. Waiting. Still. Container for the thing contained. Meaningless except for his service. He cried, and cried, ashamed and happy and grieving and homesick for this moment even as he experienced it.

Above, Greg realized his husband was in tears. He considered. He stroked his head, as he had been. He waited for Mycroft to safeword. He didn’t. He considered intervening. But—Mike seemed to choose to remain as he was. So Greg just kept stroking him, letting his cock fill his lover’s ready mouth. Only as the sun began to fail, and the room dimmed, did he run a knuckle over his boy’s stubbled, sexy cheek, and say, “Time to let me go. I need to use the head.”

He half thought Mycroft would resist, rather than leave his mouth empty and hollow. But with a sigh he released Greg and leaned back, shuffling out of his husband’s way.

Greg went to the loo, did his business, and returned, carrying two open bottles of beer. He handed one to Mycroft.

“Was it all you hoped?” he asked.

Mycroft, silent, nodded, and gulped down beer with a kind of desperate need. “I could do that forever,” he said, almost sadly. “That was…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “It was amazing.”

“It was,” Greg agreed. “Not like anything I’ve ever felt before.”

They were both silent.

“I want to do it again,” Mycroft eventually said, almost defiant. “I know it’s not…”

“Shhhh,” Greg said, cutting him off. “Again is fine. I liked it. I liked it a lot. Now, c’mere you.” He tugged, drawing Mike, in his sheer, transparent gown, up into his lap, holding him close against his chest. “You don’t have to fight for this one, bae. It was good. Good idea. We’ll do that one again.”

Mycroft sniffled, and nodded, and fisted Greg’s shenyi in determined hands.

“I love you,” he said. “Thank you for this.”

“Today?”

“For the entire week. It…satisfies something in me. And thank you for giving me time to think about it. And for letting me make suggestions. It’s wonderful.”

Greg smiled ruefully. “Not really anything I ever expected to do.”

“I know. Honestly? I didn’t know it was anything I’d want to try, either. I had some fantasies—and never even hoped to meet anyone I’d dare try them with.” He sighed happily. “Until you.”

They sat that way for an hour. Then Greg ordered curry in, and they ate sitting on the floor, with Mycroft’s cock locked to the eye screw, and Greg feeding him scraps of food from his hand.


End file.
